


monomyth

by MangoSpin78



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Tales From The SMP - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, BadBoyHalo - Freeform, Basically just a bunch of interconnected oneshots, Character studies, Multi, Robin and Corpse family dynamic, Sir Billiam III - Freeform, Tales From The SMP, The Village That Went Mad, They/Them pronouns for Eret, family dynamic sbi nice try mr. blade, haha parallels go brrr, if no one else got me i know tales from the smp got me can i get an amen, no beta read we die like lmanberg, skeppy - Freeform, sleepy bois inc - Freeform, weekly updates hopefully
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28518414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MangoSpin78/pseuds/MangoSpin78
Summary: monomyth (n): the common template of stories that involve a hero who goes on an adventure, is victorious in a decisive crisis, and comes home changed or transformed.karl tells stories. stories he's seen, stories he's lived, stories he's created. stories of friends, of family, of love, of tragedy. more often than not, he watches them play out more than once.or: time is a flat fucking circle
Relationships: Corpse & Cornelius & Robin, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 136





	1. Prologue: The Boys Who Heard the Tales

“Daaad!”

Phil sighed, then smiled at Tommy, just tucked into bed. “Yes?”

Tommy sat up suddenly, a toothy grin spread across his face. “Read us one of your stories!”

Techno groaned. “Please, God, I just want to sleep.”

Wilbur sat up suddenly, fumbling for his glasses. “You know, there’s actually a theory that there’s only one story in the world.”

Techno sat up, sighing in resignation. “You’re raising nerds, Philza.”

Phil chuckled, settling in a chair on the opposite end of the room of the beds. “You read Sun Tzu for fun, Tech.” Techno scrunched his nose in indignation, but didn’t contradict him.

“What do you mean, there’s only one story?” Tommy grumbled. “I’ve heard a bunch of them, and they’re all really different.”

Wilbur sat up a bit straighter. “It’s really interesting. It’s called the monomyth. Every hero goes on the same journey, through these twelve steps or whatever, but it’s basically the same thing, just over and over again. So why tell different stories at all, if they’re all the same quest?”

The room fell silent.

“Oh. I… hunh,” Tommy replied quietly.

“If everything repeats, over and over, don’t we know how our stories happen already? Don’t we know how they end?” Wilbur pressed.

“Well, we do know how they end.”

“We do?” Tommy asked, looking over at Techno.

Techno met his gaze with a bored look. “Yeah. We _die_.”

“Ah.” Tommy bit his lip to stop it from quivering. “Yeah, um. I knew that.”

Phil sighed, pulling the chair closer to the beds. “Well, sure, we die, but we get to live too, don’t we?”

Techno nodded sagely. “Also a fact.”

Phil stood up and took the thick, leather-bound book from the nightstand between Tommy and Wilbur’s bed, ruffling Tommy’s hair and tapping Wilbur’s nose. “The best part of life is that you have your own story to write.”

Wilbur frowned. “But the monomyth says-”

Phil waved a dismissive hand. “No offence, but that’s for books n’ shit. Your life isn’t just a story.”

Wilbur tilted his head. “I mean… isn’t that what we all become some day? Another story in a book like that?”

Phil hoped his concern didn’t show on his face. Techno broke in. “That’s if we’re remembered at all.” Wilbur turned to glare at him, a sharp rebuttal obviously prepared.

“That’s more than enough, you two,” Phil said sternly, frowning. “You each have the power to create the best possible story for yourselves. And because of how incredible each of you boys are, I know you will. Monomyth be damned.”

Wilbur frowned, fiddling with the covers. “I mean… surely there’s at least parallels…”

Phil’s expression softened. “Of course. I’m sorry, of course there are parallels, Wil. I just… I want you boys to lead the best lives you can. You write your own destinies. You’re not confined to any arc or story element or anything. The world is completely open to you.” Phil tried for a smile. “I just… I know the dangers of thinking you’re a hero or playing some part in your own life. We tell stories to learn from them, not to become them.” His gaze turned harsh as he looked at Wilbur and Techno. “And we most certainly won’t be talking all existentially like that. At least, not in front of Tommy.”

Tommy sniffled, wiping his eyes hurriedly. “I’m fine! I’m a big man! Life doesn’t matter!” 

Phil shook his head hurriedly. “You're wrong about that one, champ. Your life- your _lives_ \- matter more than anything else in this world. Because those, at least, will forever be yours to decide on.”

The room fell silent once more, each boy hit with the weight of Phil’s words.

Phil cleared his throat, opening the book. The spine cracked with age, as Phil ran his fingers over the embossed purple eye on the front page.

“So. Who shall we meet tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST FIC ON THE TALES FROM THE SMP TAG LMAOOO EAT MY SHORTS NERDS  
> anyways hiii im mango and i am deeply attached to the minecraft men. i wanna write more in the shitstorm that's about to be 2021 so even tho i'm not entirely sure what this fic gonna look like, i'm gonna push myself to write- i shit thee not- one chapter for every tales from the smp stream. that's once a week. this is a terrible idea  
> either way, lmk what you want to see! this is about the characters on the dream smp, not the content creators themselves, but if any of them express discomfort with anything included here, i'll immediately take it down. also, if you think i'm crossing any lines (i wont try to lmao) please let me know. any criticism is welcome :)  
> also, to the one person who would make fun of me for doing this: saint i swear to fucking god dont bully me for this you literally simp for bakugo you watched three seasons of MHA in a week get out of here  
> (also sorry if ur still following me from my taz: amnesty fics, those are probably dead i know only mcyts now)


	2. The Boy Who Befriended the Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a quiet boy is given a responsibility he does not want yet must accept. he's got his dad with him every step of the way... until he doesn't. 
> 
> (i promise we have fun here. most of my stories are escapes, outlooks into places you've never been. above all, they teach and entertain. i won't lie to you, though: this story is a tragedy. these types of stories always are. we both know They demand as much. -k )

Robin found himself sitting in silence so often that he had grown to like it.

The edge of the village offered a stillness he couldn’t find when he was sitting in his house, surrounded by villagers cooing and discussing his fate over his head. They didn’t argue anymore when he wandered to the edge of the woods, searching for frogs in the stream or climbing trees. They just watched him and shook their heads, tutting or mumbling about inheritances and idiocy. He didn’t let it bother him much. He learned to love the silence like a brother, started to crave it like a home. The wind howled, the few leaves that had begun to fall crunched under his feet, the frogs croaked, and he was alone, and it was wonderful.

Until, of course, he wasn’t.

Someone was sitting on a stump by the stream when he approached it one late summer morning, a chilly breeze drifting through the woods as a promise of autumn's near arrival. He recognized the figure vaguely, before he noticed the ears and the flicking tail and knew exactly who he had found. 

Corpse didn’t notice him approach at first, and Robin was more than okay with that. He felt a tinge of annoyance at the presence of someone else- he could still practically hear Helga shrieking in his ear, and he wanted nothing more than to hear absolutely nothing at all. The man was blind, though, so he wondered if maybe, if he was very quiet, he could just slowly walk away and- 

Corpse cleared his throat, his head titled as he caught the sound of the leaves crunching under Robin’s feet. Robin groaned inwardly, but greeted him, “Oh, um. Hello!”

“Hey, kid. How’re you holding up?” Robin shrugged, kicking a crumbling brown leaf and studying the grass. “Have they agreed on the whole guardian situation yet?”

That was the biggest issue on Robin’s plate- the village had agreed that Robin very well couldn’t be left in a house alone, so someone had to take care of him until he could take care of himself (he technically could) or someone came back for him (they wouldn’t). He also knew that the village knew he was the one person who knew where his parents’ savings were hidden- his father had run a gold mine and made a fortune, so the villagers tended to see Robin as nothing more than a pouch of coin. They claimed he had a say in who he lived with, but Robin knew it had never been up to him. He didn’t particularly like any of them, anyway, and what could his little voice do against a screaming village?

“How do you feel about it all?” Corpse looked at him with unfocused eyes, unable to actually see the boy. Robin shrugged again, mumbling an 'I dunno'. “C’mon, kid, I know you’re thinkin’ a lot more than that.”

“Well… I don’t know. No one really asks what I think. So, you know. Something’ll happen eventually, and that’s all that counts.”

Corpse frowned, shifting to fully face the boy, his ears just barely flattening in annoyance. “You can’t really be that resigned to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why not just… I dunno, stick it to ‘em? Tell them to leave you be and go bother some other poor kid?”

“I don’t think it’s quite that simple,” Robin replied, shifting his weight nervously. Corpse chuckled.

“You’re smarter than they realize.” Corpse stood, walking over to Robin and fumbling for his head before ruffling his ruddy red curls. “I’ll leave you alone. Might be out here a bit more often, though. What with the rumors, they don’t look at me too kindly anymore.”

Robin titled his head inquisitively and called after him, “The rumors?”

Corpse called back over his shoulder. “They say there are some murderers in town.”

Robin blinked in surprise, then ran after him. “Sorry, murderers? What the hell?”

“Yeah. The rumors circulate around pretty often, actually. Every few years.”

“Well? Are they true?”

“Most of the time, no.” Robin had to practically jog to keep up with Corpse’s long strides. “But this time… it feels different. I can’t, y’know, have a sighting of the storyteller himself, but I can feel that he’s near. He makes this place more sour than it already is. He makes it just… wrong.”

Robin frowned, purposefully ignoring the mention of the storyteller. “So you… you think there are murderers among us? Truly?”

Corpse exhaled sharply. “Yes, Robin. I think there are. If there aren’t any now, there certainly will be soon.” 

Robin’s expression dropped. His friend silence paid them a long visit. 

Corpse cleared his throat. “Do you want me to, like, walk you back or…?”

Robin looked up to see that they had reached the outskirts of the village. Like he had assumed, villagers were still gathered around his house, some arguing, some gossiping, some squinting as the sun fell below the horizon. “I really don’t wanna go back. I have a place I can stay in the forest, so I’ll just go-”

“I can’t let you do that, kiddo, it’s dangerous. You wanna stay the night? I have a spare bed I can place in the living room, I ‘spose…” Corpse drifted off, raising an eyebrow at Robin.

Robin considered it for a moment. There was a non-zero chance that Corpse was one of the murderers there had been rumors about. Robin spared a glance at the villagers infesting his home and decided that whatever awaited him with Corpse was better than another day near so many people and yet so alone. 

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

The autumn breeze was bone-chilling when Robin bounded into Corpse’s house- his house, as of a few months ago, he reminded himself- and dropped a pile of sticks on the table.

“What’s that for, buddy?” Corpse asked, the sides of his mouth momentarily twitching upwards in the closest thing Robin saw to a smile from his guardian. Corpse was his guardian now, and Robin couldn't shake the immediate comfort that entering the home- his home!- gave him, the familiarity and kindness radiating from the blind man and surrounding Robin like a blanket. 

Robin shrugged, letting himself grin. “Dunno yet. I wanna make a town, though, in the muddy section of the backyard. I had this idea that, if I get enough leaves and stuff, I could insulate it for all the frogs to stay in once winter comes!”

“Don’t frogs hibernate?” Corpse rolled his eyes as Cornelius drifted into the house, vaulting himself onto the table and pulling the brim of Robin’s hat over his eyes.

“Let him build his frog village, dearest,” Corpse replied as Robin giggled. 

“I’m only pointing out a fact, _darling_ ,” Cornelius cooed back. “I don’t want the kid to think the frogs are ignoring him. They wouldn’t do that, of course.”

Robin gave him a frustrated glance, humor in his tone. “Well, I know that. Frogs are incredibly polite.”

"That they are." Corpse chuckled warmly. He walked over to investigate the pile of sticks and kissed the forehead of the strange mask Cornelius always wore. “How was your day?”

Cornelius sighed, pulling his hood down and revealing sandy blonde hair. “Same as all the others. More than a few folks aren’t too happy the kid’s with us.”

“We’re leaving as soon as winter passes,” Corpse assured his family, looking at them both in turn. “All of us. We’ll go across the server, find some nicer place, maybe make a place of our own.”

Cornelius took Corpse’s hand and intertwined their fingers. “We just have to keep our heads down until the spring.” Corpse hummed contentedly in recognition, letting a hopeful smile spread across his face as he pressed his lips to Cornelius' knuckles.

“In the meantime, I have a village to build!” Robin chirped. Corpse pulled Robin to his side, grinning down at him. Robin smiled up at Corpse, the closest thing he had to a guardian, to a father, and Cornelius wheezed a laugh that drove away the silence, and Robin was finally happy for noise filling his ears.

“Be safe, kiddo!” Cornelius called as Robin sprinted out the door, beelining to the forest. “Stay away from Helga! Actually, stay away from everybody!”

“Already my plan!” Robin yelled back.

He wove easily through the trees, finding comfort in the birdsong and whistling wind where he had previously prayed for complete silence. He hummed under his breath, collecting sticks and chattering happily at the passing wildlife, giggling as bees buzzed around his head. 

Robin knew stillness. It wasn’t complete silence, it wasn’t a lack of movement- it was an inherent rightness, one you couldn’t describe. It rested firmly and warmly in your chest and reminded you how wonderful the world could be if you only let yourself be in the right parts of it. He loved stillness even more than he loved silence.

He immediately recognized when that cherished stillness abruptly disappeared.

He wasn’t alone. The birdsong was gone, and night fell quicker than it should. A chill went up his spine as his face fell.

“Robin.”

The boy turned on his heel and brandished a stick at someone he had never seen before, yet immediately recognized. Maybe it was the strange clothes- a soft wool sweater, strange pants made from a material he didn’t recognize, hands dotted with rings, and the strangest shoes he had ever seen. Maybe it was the knowing glance through stray light brown hair, the nearly apologetic smile, the glow in the pure purple eyes, devoid of white like the dark beasts from the other world he had heard rumors of.

It was probably the third eye glowing an almost blinding purple on the man’s forehead that told Robin the most.

“You’re the one they talk about.” His voice wavered. He didn’t want to say it, almost as if he would speak it into truth if he did. He would rather know what he was getting into, though, so he swallowed his fear. “You’re the messenger. The storyteller. The eye in the sky.”

“You’re right, child,” the man replied, smiling softly. It was meant to be comforting, but it nearly made Robin retch. A visit from this man only meant one thing.

“Well? What am I supposed to be, then? What's my sentence?” He spit out, venom on his tongue. He remembered little about his parents, but their warnings of the storyteller were completely clear in his mind.

The man’s smile dropped. “I wish it wasn’t this way, too.”

“Then leave us alone! No one has to play your sick game!” Robin yelled, tears suddenly springing to his eyes. 

The man winced. “It’s not my call, young one. I’m just the messenger. There are… louder voices than mine.”

Robin remembered Corpse’s rants about the villagers, the calls for Robin to ‘rage against the machine’ and stand up for himself. Robin always shook his head- there was nothing he could do to change their minds, so why bother? His protests would fall on deaf ears, anyway. Best to keep his head down, smile and nod, wait for the noise to subside. That was simpler, so that was what he did.

Robin didn’t know much about the storyteller, but if the villagers were impossible to argue against, pushing against the storyteller would be like trying to move a mountain with a wooden shovel. 

“I… I won’t have to hurt Corpse and Cornelius, right? Just the other villagers.”

The man nodded. “You, of course, can’t tell them about this. But you don’t have to hurt them.”

Robin took in a shaky breath, then nodded, sending a silent apology to Corpse. “Okay.”

The man smiled, stepping to take Robin’s shoulder. Robin flinched away, but the man’s grip was strong. The man traced the shape of an eye of Robin’s forehead with his thumb, and Robin felt something slinking through his mind immediately, an energy buzzing at his fingertips that certainly wasn’t there before. He fought back the innate smile that almost jumped to his lips, trickery running through his veins and mischief seeping into his bones.

“Welcome, my Jester.”

\------------------------------------------------------------

Techno knows how the story ends.

It’s something he laid awake thinking about as a kid. Robin’s story ended in tragedy. The villagers knew he was more useful to them alone, so at the first opportunity, Cornelius was gone, and Corpse was blamed. The villagers flocked to the boy again, cooing over him and not-so-subtly searching the house for the inheritance Robin was supposed to have. So he followed after his fathers and smiled thankfully when he was shoved into the cell, carrying his secret with him into the flames.

Phil didn’t like that story. He always rushed through it, shaking his head at parts and interrupting himself to run through tangents about how stories shouldn’t be that sad- at least, not stories meant for young boys at bedtime. The boys in question, of course, loved it- the sheer dramatics of it all, the blood and murder and intrigue. They didn’t know war yet. They didn’t stare death in the face. If they knew the stench of blood back then, Techno doubts they would’ve loved the story as much as they did.

Techno remembers fielding strange glances his entire life. The overworld was slow to adapt to his presence- more than a few times he was almost attacked before Phil swooped in to remind the attacker that yes, this was his new pupil, and yes, he was a pig, and no, you could not hunt him for sport, he’s a child, for Christ’s sake. Even then, Techno could’ve taken anyone who so much as looked at him strangely, but it was the thought that counted, he always supposed. He remembers searching for the story on the days when the stares were the worst, finding solace in Robin's final stand. If he thought about it for any longer than a few minutes, though, he could feel the repulsion bubble in his stomach, and he would slam the book shut and go train or busy himself with a more objective book. He'd rather lose himself in war tactics and work than in his own mind.

When Techno hears that Phil is under house arrest (Ghostbur announces it with that stupid, naive smile, waiting for praise like a lost pup begging for a bone), the first feeling he feels isn’t a familiar one. Techno feels his heart jump and realizes that he is terrified, because he knows how the story ends. Techno watched his family fall apart, and it’s the memory of that story that finally makes him realize how much he’s worked to make sure this doesn’t happen. 

Wilbur is dead. Tommy is exiled. Phil is trapped. Robin is terrified. And Techno knows suddenly that he has to fix it.

Techno takes in a sharp breath and looks at Ghostbur, still grinning. “Can you do something for me, Ghostbur?”

“Of course!” the ghost chirps, eyebrows raised expectantly. “What can I do ya for?”

The voices chorus fragments that swirl in his mind in a crescendo (FIND TOMMY GET TOMMY SAVE PHIL WHERE’S TOMMY GET PHIL THEY’RE COMING KEEP GHOSTBUR SAFE KEEP THEM SAFE FIND TOMMY KILL DREAM ITS HIS FAULT SAVE PHIL KILL DREAM). He takes some of the threads and weaves them into a vague semblance of a plan. “Tell Phil to hold tight and come to me as soon as he can. Get him out of L’Manberg as soon as possible. Use your ghost magic or whatever.” Ghostbur starts to cut in but Techno holds up a hand to stop him, speaking slowly to keep them both calm. “After that, try to find Tommy. Don’t you dare let Dream see you. Or anyone there, for that matter.”

“Oh, it’s a secret mission!” Ghostbur dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “I’m very sneaky.”

“Yeah, yeah. Make sure the army doesn’t see you either, they’ll be here soon.” Techno takes his sword from the wall and sheathes it by his waist.

“Okay! Bye, Techno!”

“Ghostbur, wait.” Techno winces. He promised himself he wouldn’t dwell on how Wilbur had changed. He promised he wouldn’t ask anything. But one question nagged at the edge of his mind. The voices seized it, like they tended to, and began to chorus it (DOES HE REMEMBER? DOES HE KNOW IT? DOES HE REMEMBER WHO HE WAS?).

“Mhm?” It’s heartbreakingly innocent, coming from the restless spirit of a murderer.

“D’you… have you ever heard of the monomyth?”

Ghostbur tilts his head in thought. “Uuuuuummm… no, I don’t think so. Mono-myth? That’s a lovely word.”

Techno squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, pushing the voices to the back of his brain, then opens them again and nods. “It really is. Be safe, Wil.”

Ghostbur blinks in surprise. “I, uh. I will. Bye!” He blinks out of existence, a comical suck of air popping in his wake.

Techno turns to the window, watching the horizon carefully. He searches the horizon for the advancing battalion (a laughable title, but sure, he’ll play their little war game) and finds nothing but snow, trees, and darkness. 

The wind whistles. It is quiet.

Techno is growing to like the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to stop about ten times while writing this chapter, get up, go to my bathroom, and stare myself in the mirror and say "...this? this is what you're dedicating your time to writing? catboy corpse x medieval! dream?" and i have to accept that yes. yes this is what i am dedicating my time to writing. anyway corpsenelius is too fun to write leave ur hate comments below i deserve them  
> also karl has a third eye bc i said so! third eyes are cool as shit and we as a society don't discuss that enough!!!! and there's cool lore i have planned for it so it's gonna be pog!!!!  
> tryin to think if i have anything else to say uhhh i start school soonish but unless it REALLY kicks my ass i think i'll stick with like. uploading every sunday? (pretend this went out yesterday) if tales from the smp sticks to saturdays? i also might write a gogtopia oneshot this week (once i watch the vod rip) because there are Many parallels i could draw from that one.  
> last thing: robin supremacy! i love that sweet sweet orphan boy, yes the irony of comparing him to techno isnt lost on me. also alone and sublime by mother mother is robin's song now im claiming it for him  
> okay bye :D


	3. The Day That Turned Endless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time slows to a halt for our hero, leaving him stuck in a place he does not know with a mind that moves too fast. he finds himself on a beach for far longer than he'd like to be.
> 
> (i don't like the stories that include me in them. i've never been the protagonist- sure, i've dreamed about it, but some part of me has always known that role isn't mine. i was upset by that realization at first, but i've found that sharing stories suits me much better. think of it this way- you and i wouldn't have met otherwise! -k)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: derealization/warped perception of time, themes from the exile arc (s*icidal thoughts, depression, the whole shebang) after the divider

Karl remembers the beach vividly- not because it was the first story he’d seen, but because it was the first one whose ripples he felt. 

He was furiously writing in one of many notebooks one minute, his torch burning low, then he was on the deck of a ship the next. The sun was burning into his skin, and a group of voices was bellowing a too-cheerful shanty across the ship from him. He felt sweat on his brow and a rope clutched within his hands, mid-way through a tug. The ground swayed beneath him as the ship fell to the whims of the turbulent ocean. The rope flew from his hands as he stumbled backwards, a few crew members yelping in surprise as a sail unfurled above them. Karl watched it helplessly, his shirt billowing as the wind changed around them.

“Hey, boy! The hell are you doing?” There was a blur on the upper deck, then a grunt as a man jumped and grabbed the rope, swinging to the end of the ship then letting himself twist as he slowly lowered to the ground to stand in front of Karl. “Are you insane, man? We could’ve lost the headwind! You better be lucky I’m feeling nice or you’d be off the ship so quick-!”

Karl gaped at the man, squinting in confusion. Despite the stubble, the old-timey clothes, and the scars on his arms and face, he looked almost exactly like-

“Quackity?” It comes out as a croak through his dry throat. 

The man gave him a harsh, confused look that made Karl squirm, looking aroudn awkwardly at the slowly circling crew members. “What? No, I’m your Captain, boy. I don’t know what kind of curse that word is, but I really don’t like the sound of it.”

Karl stumbled backwards, feeling like a fish being surrounded by sharks. “Boy? You’ve gotta be my age.”

The Captain set his jaw, his hand settling threateningly on the hilt of his sword. “What game do you think you’re playing?”

The thought popped into Karl’s head to ask questions. The best thing he could do now was make this into a research mission and pray that his gods would make his trip short. “Okay. Okay. Do you recognize me? How did you meet me? What year is it? What’s the weather been like the past few weeks? Where are we? Who… who am I?”

The Captain blinked, then pulled out his cutlass and pointed it directly at Karl’s throat. Around him, there were sounds of similar weapons being drawn or pulled back. “Listen here, boy, and listen good. This isn’t funny. I’ll be forgiving- you have one more chance to prove it’s all a ruse and keep hoisting your sails. If you don’t back down now, we’re finding the nearest landmass and dropping you right on it.”

Karl blinked, then nodded. “Um, right. Yeah, I thought this would be funnier than it is, I’m really sorry. Just a little prank to pass the time, y’know? I’m sorry, Captain, I’ll get back to work.”

The Captain eyed him carefully, then chuckled lightly, dropping the sword to his side and shaking his head. “Man, you really scared me for a second. Christ. Get back to your post. Boys, watch starboard for land. Two of you ready the anchor, and-”

“Hold on.” A familiar voice echoed in Karl’s ear, the sound of a bow pulling back accopanying it. Karl slowly turned to meet brillinat green eyes and the point of an arrowhead, directed square in the middle of his forehead. “What’s his name?”

“I’m sorry?” Karl squeaked, holding his hands up in surrender.

“The hell is this, Green Eyes?” The Captain asked, glaring at the blond man pointing his bow at Karl.

“Sorry, Captain, just trust me on this one. What’s your Captain’s name, boy?”

Karl’s eyes widened. “I… um… Captain? Mister Captain? Oh Great and Powerful Captain?”

The Captain’s eyes widened. “I threatened you with expusion from the nearest ship in miles, and you’re still keeping this up?”

“I don’t know your name, I’m sorry!” Karl confessed, jerking his head to stare at his feet. He was wearing boots now. Strange.

“Is this scurvy? Does scurvy cause stupidity?” The Captain asked the blond holding a bow to Karl’s head.

“Might cause amnesia. Insanity, certainly. Weak kid, too much sun, not enough attention… it’s not out of the question.” The man smirked, tapping his fingers on the bowstring. “Ready at your call, Captain.”

“Hold your fire, jeez. Just throw him in the cell for now, we’ll drop him on a nearby island. You can answer all his questions, too.” The green-eyed man sighed, dropping his bow and adding the arrow back to the quiver on his back. Two other crew members took Karl harshly by the shoulders, one binding his hands with rope. Karl winced as the Captain circled to face him again, bending to his eye level. “One last thing. The name’s Blockbeard, boy. You better not forget it any time soon.”

Karl gulped and nodded as the crew members shoved him away, fielding the jeers of frustrated crewmates as he was led into a small cell.

“Right. Mind explaining what that was?” The green-eyed man asked as soon as the two were alone.

“I- do I know you?”

The man shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “You’d know better than me, Watcher.”

“You know what I am,” Karl realized, eyes widening.

“I know you’re the dumbest messenger I’ve ever seen. You gave yourself away without a care in the world. What kind of move is that?”

Karl sighed, sliding down the wall of the cell to sit glumly across from the green-eyed man. “I’m kind of new at this.”

Realization spread across the man’s face as he broke into a relieved smile and pulled a chair over to sit across from Karl. “Thank goodness. So am I.”

“What are you exactly?” Karl winced as he said it. “Sorry, that sounded rude.”

The man shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. On the ship, I’m the first mate. In the world, I’m just a really perceptive and persuasive mortal. In the future, I’m planning on being a god.” He mentioned it easily, like he had shared his dreams of being a doctor or something equally less concerning.

“That’s a thing you can do?”

“Well, not usually. I’m not very usual, though.” The man smirked, then waved a hand in dismissal and shook his head. “Enough about me. You seemed to have a lot of questions. Fire away.”

Karl didn’t hold himself back- his curiosity was only growing the more time he spent around the too-familiar man. “What’s your name?”  
The man shook his head. “Don’t think I should tell you that. I think you may already know it.”

“How’d you recognize me?”

“I can see the mark of the gods. Mark is generous, maybe- it’s more of a musk, or an indentation. Yours looks like wisps of purple clouds around your head, and if I stare at it for long enough, I think I can see something staring back.”

“That’s really weird but also the coolest thing ever. You knew me, when you saw me on the deck?”

“I can’t name a single memory I’ve had of this ship with you on it, but I recognized you instantly. It felt like you were supposed to be there, like you had been forever.”

“Where are we?”

“In the middle of the ocean, following a map to some kind of treasure. I’m hoping it’s powerful enough to get me just a bit closer to godhood, or at least closer to becoming Captain.”

“What happens now?”

“Well, you ask your questions, I keep you here until we drop you off, and we part at your final destination.”

“What if I die back here? I don’t know how to get back, what if I just… rot away?”

The man shook his head. “I don’t know who you are, but I know for one thing that your work isn’t done yet. They aren’t done with you yet. You’ll be gone before you know it.”

Karl wasn’t gone, though, not after he asked more questions than he knew he had to the green-eyed man, not before the ship docked finally, not before he was shoved onto a plank.

The Captain cut the ropes around Karl’s hands, poking his back with the same cutlass. “Alright. Out with ye or whatever.” Karl gave him a terrified look. “Oh, don’t be like that. Look, there’s turtles on this island! It seems like a wonderful place to die!”

“I’d rather not die at all.” Karl turned towards the Captain. “You’re sure this is the only way?”

“I’m not keeping a mad man on my ship. Get out of here.”

“Pleasure meeting you, I suppose?” Karl said, backing further onto the plank, his feet searching for footing with every step as the Captain advanced towards him.

The Captain gave Karl a two-fingered salute and a cocky smile. “Have a shit trip down.”

He lunged for Karl with his cutlass. Karl yelped, scrambling backwards and falling with a grunt onto the beach below him.

The crew laughed in triumph as the boat was pushed away from shore and back into the ocean, pointed towards a nearby, larger island. Karl huffed, sitting up and rubbing his wrists.

He turned to survey his surroundings, then glanced upwards. He realized the sun hadn’t moved from directly above him- high noon positioning, he knew from his studies- for hours. The day hadn’t seemed to progress. He felt completely and utterly stuck.

“Okay, I learned my lesson!” He yelled to the sky, holding his hands out in frustration. “You can take me back now! I’m done!”

The turtles watched him with boredom, and the gods did not respond. The gods were not unkind, but they certainly weren’t very responsive.

Watching the horizon for what felt like agonizing hours was the reason he saw the final stand at all. The only thing telling him time was passing was the turtles’ slow movements and drifts in and out of sleep, sunning on the shore. It could’ve been months or minutes, but Karl had eventually paced the island and studied the line where the sky met the sea for so long that he felt he knew it all by heart.

And then he saw the enemy ship, and suddenly there was cannon fire, and then the ship he had just been on was sinking, and he was left to stare after the wreckage. It felt fast, compared to how the rest of his day had been going. He wondered if the green-eyed man had gotten out alright. He watched the bow of the flaming ship sink below the sea and answered his own question- there was no way any of them were alive.

A turtle nudged his foot. He glanced down, watching it with tired eyes as it met his gaze and-

“KARLOS! ...Karl?”

With a jolt, he was sitting at his desk again, staring down at a notebook filled with words he most certainly didn’t write as Quackity called his name at his front door. But there, within them, was cunning Captain Blockbeard and his faithful first mate, Old Green Eyes, exploring the Isle of Skulls for a treasure blessed by the gods. He ran into a bear hug from his best friend and temporarily forgot the words, despite the hole they burned in the back of his brain.

Karl’s pursuits in writing and storytelling had been futile recently, so he was desperate. He added a few shorter, quickly crafted vignettes of daring escapes and brushes with death for Blockbeard and his crew, and began to get it published. It spread like wildfire, people flocking from everywhere to hear his stories and suggest other tales to commit to writing. His first customers pointed out the royal purple eye painted on his forehead, and no matter how much water or force he used, he quickly found that it wouldn’t come off. He supposed he should be thankful, then, for that excursion the gods brought him on, but bile still rose in his throat when he watched children reenact the day he was trapped in. He had a lot to explain to Quackity, but the weight of what was unsaid only grew with Quackity’s confusion. Karl was shaken by the encounter, and he knew he’d never be able to shake the feeling of time leeching by.

And no matter how much time went by, a small part of him still despised high noon.

\----------------------------

Tommy has been sitting on the beach for longer than he has ever wanted to sit somewhere in his entire, too-short-yet-too-long life.

The sand was warm and inviting at first, the waves lapping the shore in a way that almost seemed calming, but the sun quickly baked them into more haunting images. The sand was everywhere- in his hair, in his tent, in crevices around Logstedshire. He sweeped at them at first, desperate to keep the beach away from him. But eventually, he gave up, settling for half-heartedly glaring at every conglomeration of sand he saw. The waves attacked the shore night after night, steadily drawing closer. Tommy wondered when he would wake up surrounded by the beach foam and debris the night tides brought, his tent swept out to sea by the currents. 

All he did in exile was sleep and sit on the beach, staring blankly across the infuriatingly placid ocean. The waves let themselves be led by the moon, at its jurisdiction and mercy. Tommy hated them for it at first. Then he realized how much easier it was to be taken care of, to be told to do something. Tommy had spent his entire life fighting- it was nice to be carried for once. He found himself more and more just drifting in the ocean, letting himself be pulled and dragged below, welcoming how the water swung around him and made the world above muffled. He flirted with the dark that edged his vision when he stayed below too long, caught in a dangerous dance of mortality that he knew but never acknowledged could be his last. 

He was getting more and more reckless, but not in the way he was used to. This recklessness was the kind that made his body feel hollow, his hands shaking as he relished in the rebellion of letting death size him up and decide if it was his time yet. It was filled with rage that died quickly, stifled by exhaustion and disenchantment. It was the kind of recklessness that made him teeter on the edge of cliffs, feeling the weightlessness until he was certain he would fall. It was the kind that sent him sprinting across the plains to nowhere, his teeth gritted as he grinned at the small rebellion he could still perform before he inevitably stumbled and collapsed. 

And it was the reason he found himself sinking in the ocean day after day, searching for his last friend, the one he’d visited twice and was ready to meet for the last time when he finally got the guts to let the dark take over. The naive hope was the last thing that burned decidedly in his chest- the hope that someone, at some point, would come see him. That they’d prove how much they cared. That he’d feel missed. He didn’t want his friends to be greeted by his lifeless eyes (his eyes were gray now, slate gray, bottom-of-the-ocean gray) and a limp shell of his form.

Ranboo visits, finally, but both of them know it isn’t enough. L’Manberg had forgotten Tommy by now. He wonders if L’Manberg had ever wanted him in the first place. 

“That’s silly, of course it did.”

Tommy blinks himself out of his thoughts. “Did… did I say that out loud?”

Ranboo gives him a concerned glance. “Yes? Come on, Tommy, you’re the main reason L’Manberg existed at all. Well, you and Wilbur, but you were its… its fire.”

Every fire in Tommy’s heart but the waning flicker of hope had died. Surely, Ranboo could see that. “Then… then why aren’t they here, Ranboo?”

Ranboo blows out a breath, extending his long legs and crossing his ankles as he leans back on his elbows, staring out at the ocean. “They want to be.”

“No, they don’t.”

Ranboo tilts his head. “Fundy is... frustrated, is all. He grew up in L’Manberg, y’know? Plus, he’s got all these plans for these wild machines, and he couldn’t bear to think he wouldn’t be able to make ‘em. Quackity’s all justice and law, so given Dream made a fair deal and was very clear about his conditions… he can’t say much in rebuttal. I tried to get here as fast as I could, but… I dunno, Dream always seems to be there when I try to enter the portal, and I know he wouldn’t hesitate to- whatever. It’s all a mess, is my point.”

Tommy sits up suddenly, unable to hide the hurt on his face. “What about Tubbo?”

Ranboo searches Tommy’s expression, then shakes his head and turns his gaze back to the waves. “Tubbo… he’s keeping L’Manberg alive. Well, trying to. Everyone’s breaking off, arguing more, and he’s just trying to keep them all sane and together. He, uh, he thinks I don’t notice, but he’s got this compass he’s always holding, and when he thinks no one sees, he whispers to it. And… well, you know I’m just a curious person. I saw your compass, in your house.” He sighs, looking back at Tommy. “He really misses you.”

A week or so ago, Tommy’s heart would’ve lept with the news that Tubbo still thought of him. But the pity on Ranboo’s face is unbearable, and he knows he’s lying, because Dream said Tubbo destroyed his compass, and Dream wouldn’t lie. Dream wouldn’t lie to him. 

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious, Tommy, he wants to visit, but Dream’s always within earshot of the portal now, I shouldn’t even be here-”

“Then maybe you should go.” It comes out grating and accusatory, and Tommy winces. He didn’t realize his voice could still be that injected with hatred.

Ranboo’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry if I upset you, I promise I didn’t lie, or… well, I don’t think I did…”

Tommy shakes his head, pulling his knees to his chest. He notices vaguely that one of his shoes is gone. Another thing the beach stole from him.

Ranboo places a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, but Tommy flinches away, scooting away from him and pulling his shoulders towards his ears protectively. There is silence for a moment, then the sound of Ranboo slowly standing, brushing sand off his pants. “Right. I’m- I’m really sorry, about all of this. I’ll try to be back, or at least send you something? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Tommy’s heard it all before. He doesn’t react, not until he hears the portal’s _whoosh_ and realizes he didn’t say goodbye.

The tears that run down his face are hot, steaming under the sun that’s still sitting directly above his head. 

It’s noon. It’s been noon for weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is what we in the industry call Complete And Utter Shit but i wanted to get it out before the end of today lol  
> unpopular opinion: summer is the worst season and noon is the worst time of day. prove me wrong- you cant i am right  
> also uhhh yeah green eyes is supposed to be dre? i will never forgive karl middlename jacobs for naming his character fucking blockbeard btw it reminds me how im taking this whole tales from the smp deal waaaay too seriously and it just feels out of pocket yknow lmao  
> also i'm dedicating this chapter to tommyinnit whose character managed to somehow mentally decline at the same rate i did during the exile arc, thanks for the free theropay british child  
> that's all, new chapter after the next stream at some point, stay safe, love yall :D


	4. The Setting Sun and a Discussion of the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reflection on memory, legacy, and the death of dreams. An unwilling traitor does something they think is for the good of their friends, but soon learns that nothing ever turns out how they assume it is meant to.
> 
> (every story should be told, no matter how good or bad it makes its characters look. i lost here. and i could bring up excuses of how new to the whole time travel thing i was, how i was distracted by events in my home timeline, how They decided to make fate crueler than usual that day, but in all honesty, i just... lost. eret could tell, too, and they still can: at some point along the way, we lost. nonetheless, a tale is a tale, harrowing as it may be, so here it is. -k)

The village of Mar is small, sitting in a cove and pressed into the curves of a cliffside like a bear curled against the side of a cave, deep in hibernation and unwilling to wake. The village of Mar is small like the village of Adva down the coast is small, like the village of Loch a day’s walk inland is small, like the hundreds of farming and fishing settlements repopulating a world just rising from a pile of its own ashes are small. The villagers in Mar know something bad happened once, but nothing bad happens in Mar, not anymore. There is no ignorance in that statement, only acceptance: Mar is small, smaller than the legends of the world before, and so nothing bad happens in Mar. Nothing good, nothing bad. Sure, village children got lost, husbands and wives disagreed, people died, but compared to the legends- nations crumbling ten times over, homes exploding in fireballs, deep magic thrown around too casually and ending in disaster, the blood flowing like rivers, so many bodies- that wasn’t really bad.

The village of Mar knows what bad really is, so they don’t waste time over the negative. The villagers in Mar are pragmatic in their optimism and logical in their daydreaming. The village of Mar is built on dreams- ceaseless, hopeless dreams- and dreams do not rest for the inconvenience of sadness.

Isaac dreams, as his father does, as his mother does, as his friends and siblings do. They spend hours after dinner telling stories, they sing shanties describing derring-do and mysteries they prefer to keep unsolved, they go to bed early with the promise that dreams will be bestowed onto them. Isaac’s family dreams, because the village of Mar dreams. Isaac is a good son (his father had bestowed the title of _favorite_ on him quickly and without remorse), so he dreams.

But the village of Mar doesn’t “do” much on those dreams. As a result, Isaac doesn’t do much about them either. He fishes and he dreams and he basks in the thankful smiles his parents give him as he sits placently at his father’s side amid his younger siblings’ playing and yelling at the dinner table. He sits and dreams, because that is what he is told to do. That is all he will ever do. That is all the village of Mar will ever do. 

“It makes sense, really,” Benjamin comments innocently one day. He’s hauling a full fishnet next to Isaac, helping him when the net gets too heavy on Isaac’s side and the boy’s heels begin to tip at a dangerously obtuse angle. Isaac tilts his head in confusion, catching a fish that attempts to escape across the deck and plunging it into a crate with the rest of its school. “You know, how we never really do much here. We dream, we indulge ourselves in our fantasies, but we know what happens to those who really, truly try to act on those dreams.”

“What happens?” Isaac asks innocently. He isn’t entirely listening- he’s imagining cantering on a horse through a forest, emerging from the trees to see a nation with tall walls and towering buildings within its limits.

“You’ve heard the tales, haven’t you?” 

Of course. The Tales. A book chock full of legends and myths about those who inhabited the server long before the village of Mar, the bible for imagination, the canon of daydreaming, the basis on which every fantasy was built. Written word died with everything else in this once-abandoned world, so only a few descendants and elders still knew what the tales really said. The proclaimed descendants could only be trusted so far- most used the knowledge of language they didn’t actually have purely to defend their ancestors (usually cries of “george was valiant! he would never back down from a fight!” or “tommy was taller and stronger than any other descendant- he had a silver tongue and a diamond blade! Fundy was just a fox!” or “y’know, my great-great-great grandfather, sapnap, could definitely beat you up, so. watch your mouth”). But old habits die hard, even in the village of Mar, so every home has some kind of copy of the book.

Isaac resists an eye roll- a good son didn’t roll his eyes at his elders. “Yes, of course. What has that got to do with it? They’re all stories anyway.”

“We’ll all be stories one day, y’know,” Benjamin replies evenly, folding up the net and smiling down at Isaac.

“We’d have to want to be stories for that to happen. What stories do we have that anyone would actually want to hear?”

Benjamin tilts his head in thought, then huffs. “Well… well, none yet. But we could have them, right? And if we did, if we went out and got ourselves some tales or something, we’d certainly die some horrible death.”

“We would be remembered like the heroes from the Tales, though. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Well, of course.” Benjamin puffs out his chest proudly. “I bet I could be remembered. All I need are some stories.”

“Why don’t you go find some?” Isaac suggests, not unkindly. 

Benjamin breathes a laugh. “Why would I? I have everything I need here. Best to dwell in dreams then awaken nightmares.”

Isaac supposes he agrees. It makes sense- it’s safer at home, living in a comfortable anonymity. He isn’t anything to tell the ages about, and he will live in a quiet, tiptoeing way, and he will die a death that leaves him meaningless, but it will be a calm death, surrounded by family and friends. He thinks that’s about all he can ask for. 

So Isaac lives armed only with hollow dreams and fueled only by necessity, spending long days at sea while always keeping the village in sight. Isaac lives in a village of dreamers and relishes in the simple lives they all lead. Because they have all they need, and they never have to ache for more.

Cletus has long since decided to live in direct conflict with that.

Isaac’s youngest brother (though he is no closer to him than he is to any other child in Mar, for the village of Mar is really just one big, quiet-yet-loud family) is what his father calls a “relentless doer”. Cletus doesn’t think- he just does. He runs across fields, scrambles up boulders, dives into lagoons dotted in the landscape past the cliffs. Not to act out the next story his mind has created or learn some new skill- more so just to prove than he can. 

Isaac is the favorite son, so he is the one to follow his carefree brother, scolding him the entire way as he slips out of Isaac’s grasp like a fish through a broken net. He never seems to have a plan- one day, he’s scaling the cliffs, and the next, a day just like the first, he’s staring out at the ocean, contemplating just how far he could swim into it. He peppers his older brother with questions (“how far past the cliffs have you been? why can’t we live in the ocean? what’s a computer and where do i get one?”) to which Isaac responds with barely kept calm and patience.

Cletus is a strange case, Isaac decides on yet another day of storming after his brother in exasperation. Cletus, unlike the rest of his family, doesn’t dream. He doesn’t have any fantastically impossible life plan, and he can’t sit and discuss his fantasies and daydreams as extensively as the rest of his family can. He just _does_ , with no rhyme or reason, perhaps for the sake of doing anything at all. He’s filled with a curiosity and a determination that only a child can have, an ache for adventure that seems deeply juvenile to Isaac. 

Cletus is sitting with his legs dangling off the side of a large branch of an old tree, its leaves all but nonexistent and the trunk slowly hollowing out, but its branches still daring to ache for the caress of the sky as they pull themselves upwards. He smiles a toothy grin and waves enthusiastically at Isaac, who can hear his mischievous giggles from his approach up the hill. Isaac gives him a tired look, which Cletus decidedly ignores, turning back to look at the sun falling towards the ocean. The wind pushes his hair up from his forehead and whips his scarf behind him so it wags like a fox’s tail to match his sly grin. 

“Get up here, Isaac, the view’s awesome!”

Isaac plants his hands on his hips. “Cletus, come down. It’ll be dark soon.”

“Have you ever seen the sunset from this high?” Cletus asks, refusing to budge even as Isaac approaches the tree.

“No, but I don’t really want to, either. Please don’t make this harder for me.”

Cletus waves him off, never moving his eyes from the horizon. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

Isaac studies the horizon for a moment, trying to find anything particularly spectacular about the pastels spread unceremoniously around the sun. “It certainly is a sunset. They happen every night, y’know.”

“Yeah, but it’s never gonna happen like this again. Isn’t that weird? You and I might be the only people who see the sky exactly like this for actual years. That makes us pretty cool, doesn’t it?” 

Isaac frowns. “Let’s just… let’s just go home.”

“You know, I bet people have been looking at sunsets for like… entire years. How cool is that? I bet the sunset looks different depending on where you are. I wonder if there’s, like, green sunsets out there.” Isaac just shakes his head in dismay. “Why don’t any of us leave?”

Isaac sighs. “We’ve been over this. Why would we?”

“‘Cause it’s boring as shit here?”

“Language,” Isaac mutters, on a strange impulse. Cletus snickers. “I don’t know what to tell you, C. We just… we don’t leave here. That’s how it is.”

Cletus groans, leaning back on the branch to study the sky above him. “I just don’t know why. You guys hardly let me go on trips anyway.”

“You can come with me tomorrow,” Isaac offers, then immediately regrets saying. 

Cletus’ eyes light up. “...look, just because I’m really happy about that doesn’t mean I’m gonna let this go.”

Isaac lets out a long sigh. “Sure thing. Can we just go home now?”

“The sun’s not even down yet,” Cletus responds with a pout. Isaac looks at the horizon and confirms that the sun is basically down already.  
“Sure, bud. Let’s just go.”

Cletus groans melodramatically as he swings down from the tree and stomps to Isaac’s side, holding his hand out begrudgingly. Isaac takes it calmly and leads them back down the hill overlooking the sea. 

“Hey, Isaac? Can I ask you something?”

“Of course you can. What’s wrong?”

Cletus drags his feet, scuffing the ground. “Nothing, nothing. I just- what happens in the future? Are they gonna remember us? Will they know Mar even existed?”

“Probably not,” Isaac responds immediately, shrugging. “But nothing we can do about it.”

Cletus sniffles and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I ‘spose you’re right.”

But there’s a silent determination in Cletus for the rest of the day. He is silent at dinner, standoffish when anyone asks him any questions, and lost deep in thought when Isaac wakes him a bit too early to head out on their trip. They meet Benjamin, who visibly disapproves of dragging Cletus along, and Charles, one of the few older children in Mar who don’t look down on Cletus. 

They’re walking down the beach, arms loaded with supplies, when Cletus stops, squinting at something in the sand. Isaac feels annoyance and dread settle in his stomach.

“What’s that?” Cletus asks, reaching for whatever he’s fixed his gaze on.

Out of some strange instinct, Isaac shoves him out of the way and swoops his arm down to grab whatever is buried in the sand, scolding his brother immediately. “Cletus, you can’t just grab random things on the beach and-”

Isaac looks down at the object in his hands- an old leather journal- and is never the same.

He becomes an observer in his own mind immediately, shoved to the back of his own consciousness. He can’t feel the sun on his face or the sand beneath his feet- he realizes with a shock of panic that he can hardly feel anything. He’s unable to fight for control of his limbs for long until something begs him to “stop struggling” and he is shoved back again. He looks up at his friends, his brother, and realizes that he doesn’t recognize their faces. He doesn’t remember who they are. He doesn’t remember who he is.

“Isaac,” he whispers to himself. No one seems to hear. He whispers it louder. “Isaac. Isaac, Isaac, Isaac. I’m from the village of Mar. I’m fourteen. I’m Isaac. My name is Isaac.” He knows these words are true, but can hardly remember what they mean.

“Wow guys, there are coordinates in here! Let’s go follow them!” is the first thing Isaac- new Isaac? evil Isaac?- says. His three friends don’t recognize any change or distress, so they hop into boats and search for the city. Isaac wants to scream at them to stop, that the village of Mar dreams and stays safe in their comfortable fear of the outside world and the beyond. All he can force out is “Wrong way,” which is nothing near what he’s trying to tell them.

Charles hoists a sail and holds himself up with the rope, leaning back as the boat begins to skim across the waves. “What? How do you know?”

“Yeah, how do you know, dipshit?” Cletus echoes, grinning at Isaac as he sits at the prow of the ship. Benjamin grumbles, but doesn’t say anything about their antics.

“I just- I just do, okay? Trust me.” _Don’t trust me. Something’s really wrong, please try and see that._ “Um, a bit to the east?”

The moment they find the small hut, Not-Isaac ushers his friends in, busying himself with tying up their ships, and mutters, “Look, I’m sorry it had to be this way.”

“What?” Isaac tries to say. Not-Isaac sighs. 

“I’m Karl, and this isn’t gonna last forever. I just need to- to see what’s going on here. Alright?”

“What’s going on? Why me?”

“What, you don’t want to see what’s down there?” He can hear the excitement in Karl’s tone. He wishes this stranger that had taken over his body could take this all a bit more seriously.

“Not really, no,” Isaac replies, trying to keep his breath calm before realizing that he can’t actually feel himself breathing.

“I’m sorry, seriously. I just- I need to see this. I need to see what happens and how I can fix it.”

“What about our world needs fixing?”

“It’s for your own good. For our good. For everyone’s good.” Karl fumbles with the ropes. “How do you even knot these things?”

“You’d know if you didn’t steal my body from me and rob me of my autonomy,” Isaac snaps. 

“That’s fair, that’s fair,” Karl sighs, managing to keep the boats attached through flimsy knots and sheer will. 

Isaac wants to curl up and make the entire situation go away entirely. “Why not Cletus? He’d kill for a chance like this. Just- why me?”

“I don’t know. Fate? You’re the chosen one or something.”

_The chosen sacrifice._ “Just- make sure Cletus doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Isaac, you coming?” Charles calls, poking his head outside the door. “We think we found an entrance.”

Karl stands up and calls back, “Be right there!” He mutters another, “I’m really sorry,” under his breath as he slips into the hut to see three strangers smiling back at him.

Isaac knows it’s too late for that. He assumes Karl does too. Because nothing can ever make up for how Isaac watched Karl send Cletus up that damn tree (Isaac never would’ve let them up there, it was so stupid, and now Cletus was-), and how he tried to scream as he watched his brother fall into a spreading firestorm and felt his face stay placated, heard Karl say nothing, knew that Karl wasn’t reacting, that Cletus stared at his brother’s face for the last time and met unfeeling eyes-

Isaac feels his own death, but he feels he has died much earlier before that. He feels like a traitor, like he’s taken advantage of his friends though he knows it could never have been prevented. In a strange, twisted way, this was always how it was meant to be, how it was meant to end.

Karl is screaming apologies by the time the sword stabs through him- them, the both of them, Isaac supposes- and Isaac is crying tears that will never fall, wondering where it all went so wrong. He feels guilt, and then he feels nothing.

He wishes there was any way for anyone to know his name. He wishes he had written more down, left traces, evidence that he and his friends had once been in this unforgiving world. He wants the world to know exactly what this strange man with his strange book did to them. 

Isaac feels small, and for once, he doesn’t take any comfort in it.

\----------------------------------------------

Eret has let themselves forget the good memories of L’Manberg, for the most part. But when they think of L’Manberg, they think of one moment- the moment they knew that they would be the reason for its downfall.

The sun was setting on the last day before the battle for independence against Dream. They were all sitting on the tallest point in L’Manberg’s boundaries- a gently sloping hill, with small saplings scattered around it- and chatting aimlessly while preparing for the battle ahead. All five of them were “busy” with various menial tasks, but as the sun fell more and more, the group hushed as the weight of what the sun’s next appearance would bring settled on their shoulders. 

As usual, Tommy broke the silence. “Wil?” Wilbur hummed in acknowledgement, shielding his eyes from the setting sun with his hand. “What happens after all this? What happens if we win?”

Something about how Tommy asked it made Eret look up from the sword they were sharpening, eyebrows raised. Something told him the answer was something he’d want to hear.

“When.”

“Sorry?”

Wilbur let a grin spread across his face. “When we win, Tommy. When we win, L’Manberg will be the crown jewel of this unforgiving land, and people will look at us and know that we’re building a new kind of world, a world of freedom and democracy, a world free of tyranny. And history will put our names beside pictures of this nation and look at all the good we’ve done with respect. L’Manberg will stand proud for generations, and we’ll be standing right beside it. We’ll be legends.”

Tubbo, perched on a stump a few feet away, stifled a laugh. “You’ve thought about this a lot, hunh?”

Wilbur shrugged, but he was still grinning ear to ear. “Just a bit.”

Eret focused back on the sword as they cleared their throat. “And why would they remember us?”

Wilbur gave them an immediately defensive look. “What do you mean? We’re declaring independence from Dream for the first time in the server’s history. We’re leaving marks on this land that won’t be erased.”

“Anything can be erased,” Eret replied evenly, meeting Wilbur’s gaze through their tinted glasses. Wilbur straightened, blinking in confusion. Eret broke their eye contact by sheathing the sword and moving on to sharpening another one laying at their feet. “There are many who want to see us fall. And many who will in the future. We can’t assume anything.”

“The Dream giveth and the Dream taketh away,” Fundy added with a smirk, resulting in a scathing look from his father. “They’ve got a point, man. It’s worth mentioning.”

Eret smiled thankfully at Fundy. Tommy shifted nervously. “Just- what’s this all gonna look like? What will they see us as in the future? Because they- they have to see us. They have to see us, right?”

“Yes,” Wilbur snapped as Eret made a noncommittal “enh” sound. Wilbur held up his hand to cut off Eret’s rebuttal. “They will see us. They’ll tell our stories, the story of tonight, of every night. Because we’re- we’re right. We’re defeating Dream, we’re bringing him down to size. We're vanquishing the beast. And heroes always beat the beast. That’s- that’s just how it works.”

“You’re scared,” Eret realized. 

Wilbur snapped his head to glare at Eret. “I have no reason to be. We’ll meet Dream at dawn and we’ll beat him and we’ll gain independence. This world won’t forget us.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

Wilbur tilted his chin up to look down at Eret. “I’m the general. I don’t get scared.”

Another, decidedly less comfortable hush fell over the group. The sun sent last, reaching rays over the walls, barely skimming their faces. Eret smiled into the sun, trying to ignore the dread growing in their chest.

“Well, I’m scared,” Tubbo mumbled. Tommy sent him a surprised look. Tubbo shrunk under the attention. “I am! Dream, he’s- he’s a lot stronger than we are. All of them are. Statistically, I don’t think- I don’t know if we can win.”

“Look, I wanna see him beg for mercy as much as the rest of us, but yeah, I’m… I’m terrified,” Fundy added. “I mean… L’Manberg’s all I know. And if it falls… I dunno what I’d do. But Dream gets away with too much anyway. We can’t just… not fight.”

Tommy pulled one of his legs to his chest, resting his chin on his knee. “I’m kind of excited, honestly. It’ll be good to watch that stupid fuckin’ mask crack for once. He’ll be scared, I know it. He’s already scared. Why else would he allow this if he wasn’t?”

_Because it’s all a game_ , Eret thought to themselves. They’d known this world for longer than Tommy had, and they knew from experience that Dream always had the upper hand. If he appeared weak, it was only because he knew how it all ended already- with him as the decisive victor, smiling over any carnage necessary as he looked down on the rest of the world. Eret scanned the landscape, blanketed with dying light, and tried to see it as anything but a graveyard.

“We done going in a circle and sharing our feelings?” Wilbur asked, voice barely kept level. “Good. We can’t afford doubt. Not now. We’re going to beat Dream, and we’re going to win our independence. Any naysayers can tell their opinions to the green man himself, outside the walls, without armor or support from anyone here. Am I clear?” The group all suddenly found the grass very interesting, heads tipped downward. Only Eret kept their gaze level with Wilbur’s, watching the light slide off of the general’s face as the shadow of the walls consumed the hill and the figures sitting on it.

“There’s nothing wrong with being afraid, Wilbur.” Wilbur scoffed. Eret pressed further, though they knew they shouldn’t. “We’re doing the undoable, the inconceivable even. It’s only fair that you think-”

“And what about you, Eret? O wise one? You didn’t tell the class how you were feeling.”

“Neither did you,” Eret countered.

“Apparently, you can already tell. You’re evading the question.”

Eret took in a breath, studying their reflection in the sword they cradled in their lap. They had to admit, the optimism was encouraging. L’Manberg was a dream that was never meant to exist suddenly realized, its citizens quickly developing a habit of looking up but never around. It was juvenile and reckless, Eret thought. Sure, it made marks on history- in the form of scars, and cycles of bloodshed, and smudges of scarlet red on aging parchment. It set a standard of violence that Eret knew L’Manberg’s citizens wouldn't soon forget, and the sight of Tommy and Tubbo saluting in oversized uniforms, with swords still a bit too big for them strapped on their backs, already made Eret sick. They didn’t want to live in a world of war, especially not in a world of wars fought by kids. L’Manberg’s existence meant the existence of violence and hurt beyond what the server had seen before. Eret didn’t want to tell their grandchildren about bloody struggles and decades of the tumultuous tides of war. They wondered if history wouldn’t be better off without a L’Manberg, without children turned martyrs and fields turned battlegrounds. They knew how history spun its tales, and the last thing they wanted was to watch any of their friends turn from soldiers to saints, distant and lifeless.

“...I feel determined. You’re right, all of you. Whether our children tell our stories or not, L’Manberg deserves its independence.” Eret only believed one part of it- determination. When Wilbur’s face softened into an easy smile and he clapped Eret on the shoulder, barking last-minute orders and watching as the citizens scrambled to prepare for the day ahead, Eret knew what they had to do- for the good of everyone blinded by L’Manberg’s empty promises of happiness and peace.

Dream wasn’t hard to find. He raised an eyebrow as Eret approached him in the community house.

“Tell me what you need to make sure L’Manberg falls.”

Dream smiled- or Eret assumed he did; they couldn’t actually see if he was, though they could hear the disgusting warmth in his tone- and extended a gloved hand.

“I’m glad one of you finally saw sense. I think we’ll work very well together.”

Eret is older now, and he has been staring at the wreckage of L’Manberg and anything near it for hours, days maybe- longer than he can count. It’s just a gaping hole of debris now, small tunnels left where people tried desperately to loot for supplies or gear only to find nothing but ash and splinters. They don’t remember when, but at some point they knelt at the edge of the pit, their cape pulled tightly around them in a useless attempt at comforting themselves. If they peer down far enough, they can see deep, black rock- a scar in the earth that will never heal. Someone has stuck a large, torn L’Manberg flag in a pile near the bottom, and the sight alone makes Eret furious and thankful all at once. Furious, because after everything, why are people still clinging to a land that means nothing, that now really is nothing? And thankful, because it’s a peaceful image, despite it all. There’s a breeze flowing above the pit, so weak gusts of wind slide down the sides of the wreckage and bat playfully at the flag, making it flutter every so often. And no L’Manberg means no wars between nations, no more bloodshed, no more sacrifice, no more lives lost. Eret knows that’s as blindly optimistic as Wilbur and his friends were when they strolled behind Eret in the final room, but they let themselves dream.

They know they’ve done a lot of things wrong. They knew it before, when they were kicked out of L’Manberg, when their former friends screamed at them in confusion, when they proclaimed that L’Manberg was never meant to be through tears. They were made certain of it when Ghostbur, ever kind Ghostbur, looked at them and declared that he hated them. And when Tubbo kept an air of tense formality at every meeting between nations while dismissing any forms of amity and recognition. And when they met Tommy’s wide eyes and realized how broken that boy was, a trail of scars and distrust blazed by their betrayal. But staring at the wreckage writes it into fact in Eret’s mind- _Tommy was right. You really, really fucked up._

Eret forces themselves to stand, dragging their feet as they pull themselves back to their castle, their crown weighing them down. They turn their back on the ruins of a doomed dream and blink away tears.

It was for their own good, wasn't it? But it wasn’t good enough.

Eret is sure a king has never felt so small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayo it only took me three streams to get off track lets GO! fr super sorry im late i got really sad and then writers block went brrr but its fine bc now the chapter is here and its good-ish! also i realize i talk way too much in notes but no one irl listens to me when i talk about the smp or anything in general so u all are getting it here  
> in case u cant tell i LOVE love love worldbuilding places from these streams (even tho i got super abstract describing mar LMAO), its like writing a setting with half the commitment and twice the details to go off of! like how mizu just means water so i named every town near it something related to water lol. also cletus means "called forth" (alex quackity you genius) and isaac was the son in the bible that moses loved and then nearly unalived (thank you 11 years of catholic school all u gave me was trauma and biblical allusions to put into minecraft fanfiction :D) god names are so cool  
> also uh the fact that lmanberg isnt mentioned in mizu bc ghostbur's library blew up so there's no written memory of it? OUCH that one did hurt super bad, i miss them :(((  
> okay i'll shut up now hope u all enjoyed! next chapter somewhere within the week after the next tftsmp stream (which is gonna be SO cool karl is popping off with these holy shit)


	5. The Ally, Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once meek, the hurt and spiteful antagonist (willingly or unwillingly) assumes their role, assisted by agents of chaos and the sudden discovery of a peculiar red plant.  
> (this world thrives on power- the dealing and flaunting and gambling of it. dissenters here throw titles and wars and arms races around a bit too calmly for my taste. but this... i suppose you could call my travelling a job? this job puts me in a similar position of insurmountable power. it is intoxicating and thrilling and i don't know if i'll ever truly grow used to it. maybe we can't blame the aggressors and rebels: after all, aren't we all like them in some small, embarrassing way? -k)

Billiam used to be more than a caricature of privilege, but that all ended long ago.

When anyone pressed him about his youth, he was understandably vague. He spoke of his father’s business endeavors and his mother’s gift for connections among the elite, and his guests nodded in practiced agreement, making certain to look as interested as possible. He told very few people, when he was still too young and too inexperienced to be guarded, that he was a surprisingly rebellious son. He was his father’s sole heir- that had been pressed into him since before he understood what the words meant. There were certain expectations that weren’t up for discussion.

Stubborn even in his youth, he ignored them anyway.

While he wasn’t ever entirely sure what his father did- just when he was certain he had determined the source of their wealth, his theory was shot down by some strange new fact his parents casually mentioned over the dinner table- but he knew it required their constant and unpredictable movement. He’d often mutter half-hearted insults about the entire operation’s similarities to a travelling circus to servants, who chuckled politely as they lugged trunks and sealed chests behind them. Every time Billiam and his parents spent long, painfully silent coach rides to their next summer home or mini-palace, he’d try to note the nearest villages and mentally calculate how to run to them as soon as possible.

By his calculations, it took his parents three days to get fully settled in their new routines, two to start planning the next big ball or festival, and one to forget his existence entirely unless he was needed for the occasional appearance or business exchange. He also learned quickly that they paid the stable boys the least, meaning they were more open to some extra lining in their pockets to keep them quiet. Another entirely unrelated observation Billiam made was that his father always seemed to leave spare change in his overcoats and never seemed to notice if it got lost.

So he snuck out often, racing decidedly away from estates and mansions alike on one of the many purebred colts his father owned to reach nearby villages, mingling with the common folk and lower class. He was still a boy then, so he humored himself by dressing in the least luxurious outfit he owned (though it usually still marked him from the crowd easily) paired with one of his parents’ countless masks. His mother adored masquerade balls, and his father preached about keeping his image clean and his hands cleaner, not to mention their muddied piglin lineage, so Billiam was no stranger to masks. He wouldn’t be remembered here- he wasn’t one to make friends easily, even back then- and if he went out early enough, most villagers wouldn’t even know his family had arrived yet. So he fielded whispers and ignored stares as he flirted with strangers and made bets on card games he learned to win.

Back then he was disenchanted with his luxurious life, annoyed with the constant expectations and determined to leave his opportunities to rot behind him. He dreamed of a world of domesticity, of pain and poverty, away from the privilege he’d been offered. It was foolish, he knew that now. But then, struggle looked inviting. He ached for scars and reached for tragedy. He relished in the universality of the dirt and grime he found in public institutions, pretending that just for a day, he was just another boy in the crowd.

That’s how he found himself in the alley behind the tavern, chin tilted down and eyes glaring at two extremely upset poker players after their argument had gotten a bit too heated for the parlor.  
“You set us up, asshole. You cheated!” One of them barked. The other slipped his hand into his patched waistcoat, fumbling with something.

Billiam leveled his gaze at them, adjusting his mask- an emerald green patterned with golden leaves covering one half of his face- as he scoffed. “Getting lucky isn’t cheating. Maybe you gentlemen are just bad. Have you considered getting good? At anything? Always seems to work for me.”

The second man dropped his hand out of his pockets, flexing his hand to reveal brass knuckles. He sneered as Billiam gulped.

The first man inhaled, cracking his neck. “Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, rich boy, but you can’t walk in like you own the place, cheat us with a shitty card swap, and expect us to bow to your whim.”

After seventeen years of denial of his lineage, of his place, of his power, sense flickered into his mind. “Can’t I?”

The punch to his jaw sent sense fleeing as he reeled backwards, his back colliding with brick.

“Where did you even come from?” The first man laughs, pushing the armed man behind him to smirk directly in his face. “You clearly don’t belong here, kid.”

“And what if I want to?” He snapped, shocking himself at the sudden honesty. “Look, I’m sorry you’re mad I’m better than you and all, but you don’t have any right to just beat me up.”

“Welcome to the real world, kid.” The first man clenched his hands into fists, holding them in front of his chest. “We’ve got the right to do whatever we want.”

Billiam tried to fight back, but the most combat training he had ever gotten was fencing lessons with tutors and archery with his father, when his father had the time for him. He was getting pummeled- even he could admit that. He crumpled to the ground, pulling his arms over his head to shield himself from the two men. But just as suddenly as the blows started, they stopped. Billiam fought against the pounding in his head just to hear the men groan and to see the silhouette of a cloaked man looming over him.

A gloved hand extended to him. “Let’s be going, then.”

Billiam squinted up at him, wiping his nose and trying to ignore the smear of red it left on his knuckles. “I’m sorry, who- who are you?”

The man tilted his head back and forth. “A friend. Yeah, let’s say that.”

Billiam peeked behind the man to see his two opponents laying on the ground- one curled up on himself and one entirely motionless. “What did you do?”

“Well, for starters, I just saved your ass. People 'round here take their card games very seriously, they wouldn’t have held back for much longer. You can walk, can’t you?”

Billiam nodded, then took the man’s outstretched hand and pulled himself up, brushing off his pants. “Well, thank you, I suppose.”

The man waved him off. “Any time. Let’s just bounce before someone finds them.” He turned, cloak billowing behind him as he paced back down the alley, not bothering to watch for Billiam behind him.

Billiam had to practically sprint to keep up with him. “I can’t thank you enough, sir, I’m eternally indebted to you. What’s your name?”

The man paused, furrowing his brow in thought before responding, “...Hubert.” They both knew that wasn’t true, but Billiam’s head was beginning to hurt again, so he didn’t question it. “I’ll answer your next question, too- we’re going back to the estate in the woods.”

“Why there?” Billiam asked nonchalantly, trying to remain unaffected by the information.

“That’s where you’re from, isn’t it?” Billiam nodded wordlessly. “Don’t look so shocked. Your boots are polished, your shirt has ruffles on the collar, your mask is a ridiculous show of wealth… I’m surprised you didn’t get mugged earlier. You really made the whole prince-and-the-pauper act obvious.”

Billiam chuckled uneasily. “I suppose I did, didn’t I.”

Hubert nodded, cracking a smile. “You’ll have to be more careful if you want to be among the masses like that again.”

Billiam sighed, closing his eyes and letting his head fall. “Maybe I don’t want to be.”

Hubert didn’t respond for a long while. Then he inhaled sharply and replied, “Well, the guy was right. You don’t really belong there.”

The estate came into view- quiet and secluded, framed by tall pines with every window holding a dancing candle. For once, Billiam smiled to himself- here, he didn’t need to claw his way up the ranks or demand respect. He was already on top.

“You’re a lot wiser than I am, Hubert.”

Hubert chuckled and shrugged, glancing to the side in a way that revealed one scar across his neck and another below his eye. “Guilty as charged, I guess. I’ve just been around a bit longer.”

“You… you could help me.” Billiam’s head swirled with the sudden realization.

Hubert feigned innocence, tilting his head to the side. “How so?”

“I’ll give you a job at the estate! We need another butler anyway. And in return, you can help me figure out how something like this,” Billiam gestured to himself, specifically the bruises on his face and arms, “doesn’t happen again.”

Hubert gave him a slight smile, shrugging again. “I’d be alright with that.” Hubert extended his hand, specks of blood still lingering after the encounter in the alleyway. “It’s a deal then?”

Billiam didn’t know it then, but Hubert would infiltrate every part of his life. He was a close confidant and an ally, something akin to a friend if Billiam had ever had one. He was the one who pushed him to explore, who led him on adventures, and who encouraged him to pick up that weird red seed on the ground, thrumming with energy and growing roots in fast motion. Suddenly, his life refocused- he accepted his position as head of the family when his father passed away mysteriously in the middle of the night, covered in blood and red pollen. He hosted balls- not as many as he used to, as his semi-present guilt only allowed him to invite so many people, unlike the hundreds of people that used to flock to his parents' events. Many of the summer homes and estates quickly fell into disrepair, leading him to settle in the same one he met Hubert in, the same one holding the heart of his strange but glorious red patron.

Back then, he didn’t realize his life would devolve- no, some voice corrected within him: how his life would evolve, expand, improve- so quickly. As a boy, he was just spiteful. He would soon grow out of that, but right then, he didn’t think twice about the offer.

Billiam shook Hubert’s hand. “It’s a deal.”

\-------------------------------

Bad used to be written off and underestimated, a shell of what he could’ve been, but that all ended quite a while ago.

He had been in the SMP since Dream’s conquest of it. He was the one who bandaged his friend’s wounds after the final battle (the battle his friend won, of course) over the role of admin. He raised his son and met his best friend on the server under Dream’s rule. He dedicated hours to making the server look nicer, endured taunting and good-natured jeering from every member. He was brushed off time and time again, through wars and battles and petty arguments. He sat to the side, nodded in agreement, used his power where he was needed.

The Badlands was his first sign of rebellion, the first crack in his gentle, unassuming exterior. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. He toyed with the idea of chaos, finding solace in the sense of control it gave him. Sapnap and his Dream Team had their fun, why couldn’t Bad have his?

The Egg knew this, of course. It slumbered under the surface of the SMP, ~~curled like a serpent waiting to strike~~ like a father patiently waiting for its prodigal sons to run to it. And run Bad did, burying himself in the crimson caress of something that understood, that didn’t want to mock him, that just wanted to help.

He was the first to accept the Egg’s ~~infestation~~ guidance. Others followed, but some he couldn’t convince. He always beamed with pride when he showed his friends the egg, no matter how they responded to it. He brought everyone he could- Sam, Puffy, Sapnap even- to see it, trying to ignore their looks of disgust. They never understood what he did, what he wanted to do. It was isolating, something the Egg understood and sympathized with immediately. ~~It knew him too well, arguably better than anyone on the server. That scared him more than anything.~~

He shows Skeppy the egg last ~~maybe because he knows Skeppy’s rejection will sting the most, because it always does~~ , trying and failing to hide his excitement as they reach their destination.

“So. This is the Egg, hunh?”

Bad smiled, a welcoming grin. “Yep! Isn’t it lovely?”

Skeppy looked the red mass up and down. “Um. Sure, Bad.” Bad hummed happily, tossing the then small growth some spare steak. “Yeah, no, I can’t lie, this thing is weird.”

“Whaaaat? Oh, come on, not you too!” Bad giggled, holding his hand out to feel the waves of energy radiating off the egg. It felt ~~dangerous, horrifying, something that curdled regrets and hope alike into something even more vile~~ like purring, like a small gesture of gratitude. “It’s kinda sweet!”

“It’s gross. Where did this come from?”

“It was just down here one day!” Bad sat in front of the egg, watching as its coloring shifted from a deep, dark scarlet to a warm, ruby red. He patted the ground beside him, inviting Skeppy to sit. Skeppy shifted awkwardly on his feet, decidedly staying upright. “It found me. Just look at it!” Bad leaned down, brushing some dirt off the side of the egg ~~it stung and stuck to him, infected him, and he hated it~~ affectionately. “How can something so small be so dangerous?”

“Sometimes it’s the most innocent-seeming things that are the most dangerous in the end.” Skeppy’s tone was lilting and wavering, and Bad turned to see Skeppy studying him with betrayal and confusion in his eyes. Skeppy coughed awkwardly, patting Bad’s head absent-mindedly. “I should go. Have fun with your new friend.”

Bad blinked. “Wait, Skeppy-!” He scrambled up, reaching for his friend and grasping his sleeve. Skeppy flinched away like Bad had slapped him, tearing his arm away and staring at Bad’s hands with wide eyes. Bad frowned, then looked down at his hands. They were stained red, pollen clinging to his palms.

~~Bad wanted to throw up. This was wrong, it was all wrong, it was all too much now, he had let it go too far already, he should just-~~ The longer he stared, the more he saw the bits of pollen begin to bloom into small sprouts. “Oh.” It was a tender coo, filled with pride as growth began again before his eyes.

Skeppy tore his hoodie off, tossing it to the ground with disgust. He straightened his t-shirt and looked Bad up and down one last time. “You should go wash your hands.”

Bad sighed, watching him go, then turned back to the egg.

_Sv’h mlg dligs rg._

“I know. But it- it still hurts. Why can’t he see how wonderful you are?” The egg hummed with something like laughter ~~that made something in Bad shiver with fear~~. It was certain and strong, not unlike the egg itself.

_Sv droo hllm._

Despite the dangerous undertones of the statement, Bad smiled at it. “That’d certainly be nice, hunh?”

“You could’ve ended it all there.”

Bad chuckles, looking back at Skeppy. The egg is much larger now, its vines waving slightly as it rumbles with something mirroring Bad’s chuckle. “I see what it is. You’re jealous.”

“What.”

Bad turns his back to Skeppy, studying the egg with a smile. “You’re jealous of the egg, of how much time I spend with it. You don’t get it, not at all.”

“This stupid thing has taken over half of the goddamn server, that’s what I’m worried about! Bad, you’re scaring me. This isn’t you.”

Bad hums. “A valid concern. But it’s a necessary evil. To make the world better, we have to break it first. We have to break it right.”

“You... you didn’t say language.”

“Sorry?” Bad turns just in time to see Skeppy wipe his eyes hurriedly with his sleeve. “Oh. Oh, I, um, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Who the fuck are you?” Bad winces. ~~That’s what Skeppy never saw, that the jokes and taunting and teasing were only funny to him, never to Bad, they never cared how Bad felt about it all. Terrifying as the thing was, at least the egg listened.~~

“I am… I am who I was always meant to be. Who you were too afraid to see me as. I am what I was always meant to be. I am a vessel of chaos. But then again, part of me always has been, hasn’t it?”

Skeppy gaped at him blankly, gathering his words for a painfully silent moment. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Bad-”

“Yes, it does.” Bad tears his gaze away. A vine slithers around his feet, nudging him encouragingly. The deep voice of the egg slithers into his mind, whispering in his ear.

_Sv wlvhmg fmwvihgzmw. Sv mvevi droo. Ovg srn tl._

“I’m going to let you go now, Skeppy,” Bad repeats, swallowing hard.

“You let go a long time ago,” Skeppy snaps back, his lip curling.

“Goodbye, Skeppy.”

Skeppy huffs, turning to leave, then stops, looking over his shoulder. “You’ll need someone to help you eventually. What’ll you do when you can’t run to me?”

A vine twists across his shoulders, wrapping around his arm and resting in his hand. Bad smiles down at it. “I’ve got all the help I need, thank you.”

Skeppy turns to run.

~~The last reasonable part of Bad runs beside him, fleeing this broken shell of what Bad used to be, what Bad is now.~~

Bad giggles, then laughs, loud and labored, as his peals echo throughout the cavernous room. Destiny be damned, this is what Bad was supposed to be. This is the chaos he was meant for.

Bad has never felt more like himself ~~and yet so foreign to himself~~ in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unreliable narrators pog  
> okay so yeah this is really late lmao, i'm back now tho! i havent written the wild west chapter yet but i have a p good outline for it so i am Excited and almost caught up again :D i was TERRIFIED to write for bad but it actually didnt go terribly pog champ! idk if anyone like. actually reads this thing. i know its very self-indulgent, basically just character studies that i write bc im sad, but uh. shut up and take my mcyt brainrot  
> its 3am so i'm done lmao, stay safe loves! <3


End file.
